The Contract Scheme

Just after our eyes locked and formal introductions were made, I noticed something, an almost imperceptible expression in Mr Westwood's eyes and a light twitch at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of nerves masked beneath that polished calm.

Was he... flustered?. He disguised it quickly, slipping on his armour of nonchalance and polished professionalism, but I caught it. This could be good. For the first time since my father's will had thrown my world into chaos and a feeling of emptiness, I find myself enjoying a moment. I have the upper hand in this situation. And it feels delicious and intoxicating. Normally, I would have just played the passive role, nodding here, offering a courteous question there, and letting the executives iron out the messy details. But not today. I wanted him cornered. I wanted him to fumble. Leaning forward, I lace my fingers together atop the table.

"So, Mr Westwood," I begin, my voice smooth, "tell me, why exactly does Arclight want a partnership with Hartley Holdings?"

His jaw tenses ever so slightly.

"We're convinced that your company's market presence complements our expansion strategy." I tilt my head, feigning polite curiosity.

"Expansion strategy?. Could you elaborate, please?". Mr Westwood folds his hands together.

"We're targeting emerging markets across Africa and parts of Europe. Your distribution networks offer a significant advantage."

I nod slowly.

"Hmm. So you're looking to use our infrastructure to gain access to territories you haven't been able to penetrate on your own? "

His brow lifts. "Leverage is the word-collaborate... semantics."

I chuckle softly. "Semantics are important in business, Mr Westwood. Words shape deals."

Then, a flicker of something in his eyes. Irritation? Or admiration? I can't tell. Yet. Desmond shoots me a curious glance from across the table. He's probably confused at what was going on.

Courtney makes a smirk. The rest of the executing team are surprised that I'm taking the wheel. I usually leave it to them. Asking questions occasionally. Mr Westwood's team look equally bewildered but maintain calm expressions on their faces. I press on.

"And what exactly are you offering in return for this... collaboration? "

"Technology integration. Joint marketing campaigns. Cross-brand promotions-"

I hold up a hand. "Joint marketing with a company known for hostile takeovers?"

A faint murmur ripples through the room. Mr Westwood's eyes narrow.

"That was a strategic acquisition, not a hostile takeover," he replies coolly while fumbling with his pen and lightly tapping his feet on the floor. I have him where I want him. Discomfort.

"Of course," I say, leaning back in my chair, studying him.

"Let's talk numbers then. Your last quarterly growth report – care to explain the sudden dip? "

Desmond's eyes widened slightly. Courtney's pen paused mid-scribble. Mr Westwood didn't flinch. "Market fluctuations. We're diversifying investments to counterbalance."

"Market fluctuations? " I echo. "Or investor confidence?". A muscle twitched in his jaw. I smirk inwardly.

For the next thirty minutes, I hammer him with question after question - client retention strategies, internal management turnover, scalability concerns and revenue growth.

Every answer he gives, I twist, reframe, challenge, and poke holes in. And every time, I saw him tighten up just a bit more. By the time I finally leaned back, crossing my legs elegantly, Mr Westwood's carefully maintained mask had cracks.

"Well, Mr Westwood," I say with a gracious smile, gathering my notes, "thank you for your time. We'll be in touch."

I know I'm going to accept the proposal. I'm just playing around. His lips pressed into a thin line.

"Of course."As I rise, one of his associates approaches, offering a polite bow. "If you don't mind, ma'am, we'd love to treat you to lunch." I offer him a warm, professional smile.

"Oh, no, thank you very much. Perhaps another time."

He nods respectfully before walking off. My gaze lingers on him for a moment. They really do have polite people in this company. Why's Damian Westwood such an exception? . I start heading out with Desmond and Courtney.

"My, that was intense," Desmond comments."Really?" Courtney interjects,

"I enjoyed it." I laugh.

"Me too."And that's when I heard it.

"Rachel." I freeze. I recognise that voice quite alright. But "Rachel" with no formality?. I turn, a slow smirk curving my lips.

"Yes, Mr Westwood?"

He doesn't reply. Instead, he closes the distance between us, grasps my hand firmly, yet not roughly, and pulls me toward a side hallway.

"We need to talk." Courtney opens her mouth, but I give her a subtle wave. Desmond looks alarmed, and I signal him to stay put.

"I'll be back. You guys head on. Tell everyone I'll be right there." They nod. Apprehensively. I let him lead me, his grip firm but not painful. Oddly enough, it's... warm. Almost protective. Like he doesn't want to hurt me. Well, he shouldn't. His company's reputation could be on the line. He pulls me into a quiet corridor, away from the bustling conference rooms.

Once we're alone, he spins around, pushing me lightly against the wall. His hands shoot up, pinning me gently but firmly over my head.

"Excuse me? " I gasp. He leans in, his face inches from mine. His eyes lock onto mine, hard and unyielding. And I feel a stupid shiver run through me.

"Just so we're clear," he says, his voice low, "I'm not desperate for this deal. Hell, I could close down your company within the twinkle of an eye if I wanted. I'm only doing this because our fathers were friends. Mine asked me to help, so see this as me honouring his wishes. I won't have you play games with me or tease me when I most definitely don't have anything to lose." He leans even closer, my insides tingling at the close proximity.

"I still don't care about you."

His words hit like a slap. His father?. What's his father got to do with this?. Then it hits me. Westwood. The name. Dad's friend. At the funeral. Oh my goodness. I stare back at Damian, stunned. I'd read him wrong. Totally wrong. How come I didn't know about this? Dad didn't mention anything about Arclight. Mr Westwood certainly didn't mention it. But then, pride is a stubborn thing. I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and meet his stare head-on. And that's when I really saw him.

He stands at least 6'2, a towering figure of handsomeness. His dark, sleek hair framed a symmetrical face - cheekbones sharp enough to cut, a strong jawline, and full lips pressed into a frown. His fitted suit barely contains the muscles beneath: broad shoulders and toned arms. A hint of ink peeked from under his collar, a tattoo snaking along his neck. He looks...raw, dominating. Masculinity personified. And for a moment... I forget how to breathe.

"Rachel," his deep voice snaps me back to the present. Without thinking, the words blurt from my lips.

"Marry me." Wait, what? The silence that followed was deafening. Then his brows shoot up.

"What did you just say? " I swallow, straightening.

"Marry me. A contract marriage. Business only." Am I seriously proposing to this man?. I'm such a mess. He looks genuinely amused now. "You're serious? " I draw in a breath. In one fast, breathless sentence, I tell him everything: my father's will, the insane marriage condition, and the looming deadline. His expression slowly shifts from amused to contemplative. When I finish, I hold his gaze.

"So basically... we get married, I get my company, and you honour your father's wish. A win-win situation." He nods slowly.

"Interesting." I brace myself for a flat-out rejection. Instead...A slow, unamused smile spreads across his face, the kind that could make a sane woman run. The kind that made me want to place a slap across that smug face of his.

"I like it," he says. I blink.

"You... do? " He does?. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sleek black business card and hands it to me.

"Call me. Or text. Whichever, so we can discuss the details."

Yes. He's definitely insane. Before I can process it, he turns on his heel and walks off, his confident stride unhurried. I just stand where he left me, heart thundering in my chest, clutching the card like a lifeline. Did that really just happen? Could this day get any more chaotic?. When I finally returned to my team, they were all waiting with curious glances. I force a neutral expression, sliding the business card into my purse.

"Everything alright? " Courtney asks quietly."That was more intense," Desmond comments. I give a short laugh before I respond.

"Everything's perfect. How about we get pizza on the way? "

"Sounds great. I haven't had lunch," Desmond says, placing his hand on his stomach. Courtney rolls her eyes. I laugh again, but my insides are a whirlwind of emotions. I'm not sure if I'd just made the smartest business move of my life...or the most dangerous mistake of my life.